Tangled
by Tears of Mercury
Summary: He could have at least said goodbye, he realizes. Jommy oneshot, post season two. Please R&R!


**Tangled**

Written by **Tears of Mercury (A.K.A. OnTheOutsideLookingIn)**

**A/N:** This is my first Jommy fic. Yes, it is a one-shot, and yes, it is angst, so if you're the type that prefers happy endings, you've been warned. As this is my first stab at writing anything Instant Star, I'd love feedback, positive or negative… just please no flames, especially if it's because you don't prefer the couple. I really hope that you guys enjoy.

He could have at least said goodbye, he realizes. But if he had looked into her eyes, seen her confused and angry and helpless and heartbroken, he might not have been able to do it. Somehow he hopes that she understands, although he knows it's useless to wish. After all, she's understood everything else about him; this is something that even he isn't sure he understands.

Some nights the little girl next door cries herself to sleep, and he squeezes his eyes shut at the sound. Whenever he's tried to go in and comfort her she's recoiled, treating him like the absolute stranger that he is. And something about the vulnerability and pain in her eyes reminds him of a fake blonde who seems to come alive when the sunlight hits her eyes and the music flows out of her. So as whimpers die down to a hint of whispered breath six feet and one wall away, he breathes in heavily and waits for the tears to come. The only thing that finds him, though, is the sense of anguish and the feeling of misdirection.

Days are the hardest; when the world comes alive and rare moments of joy come along that he wants nothing more than to share with her. Instead, he clamps his mouth shut and touches the nearest surface lightly with his fist. A part of him so deeply rooted that he won't admit to still believes that if he were to come back, she'd be waiting. He knows better, though; she's never made a habit of sitting around pining for him. Her attempts to move past him, however unsuccessful, are one of the things that he admires about her. And even though it makes him explode inside his head, he tunes into the top twenty every Sunday and listens intently as she climbs closer and closer to the top. Music that they made together dances through the airwaves, and he can swear that if he were to just lean in close enough he could fly through the radio and be back in her arms.

The simple mix she gave him over a year ago sits untouched on his dresser. Some mornings he thinks that maybe, if he just picks up the guitar and starts over again, it will bring the healing that he so desperately needs. But the chords seem to be tangled up in his fingers, stiff and unreliable. No songs come to him for the first time in his memory, and he wonders if maybe the price of doing the right thing is shutting the defining part of him away forever.

He knows that he's lost weight; the dark circles under his eyes and the loose way that his clothes fit say it all. The only things that he seems able to consume these days are cheap beer and macaroni and cheese. It's all he knows how to make, and takeout restaurants are few and far between in Montana. In the evening when he sits down for dinner, a hollow smile touches at the corners of his lips when he sees his niece sitting next to him, humming and swinging her feet back and forth. She's always trying to find a song. It may be the only thing that they have in common. Hopefully sooner or later one of the two will be successful.

He calls her once from a payphone. It is the middle of the night, and her breathing is heavy and her voice is sleepy, just like he knew it would be. "Mom?" His fingers clench around the receiver and he shuts his eyes. A few more seconds pass and then she ventures another guess. "Tommy? Is it… is it you?" He starts to set the phone down, hearing a frantic "Don't hang up! Tommy, don't hang…" before it clicks into place. For a moment he considers dialing again, sure that she would be willing to talk, even if it was just to let out a blue streak of curses before hanging up on _him_. Dampness stains his cheeks, and it's the first time that he remembers crying, next to her sweet sixteen birthday party.

The messages that she leaves him are the hardest part. Most of them show up on his phone at midnight or later; some of them a short, succinct "call me", others rambling and well over five minutes. Sometimes if his voice mail cuts her off too soon, she'll leave two or three that are only meant to be one. And he listens as she pours out her heart, telling him about the songs that she can't seem to finish and the latest arguments with Sadie and her absentee mother and her best friend, sometimes even the painful repercussions of photographs that she unwittingly allowed some creep to take when she was drunk. The only times that he holds the phone away from his ear are when she pauses for a moment to say that she misses him. He can hear the tears in her voice then.

Would he have done things differently if he'd known then what he knows now? It's a question that haunts him often, one that he's tried numerous times to shove down deep. The truth is that he doesn't know. There are days that he's set to buy two plane tickets back to her and others when he wishes that she'd never happened to him at all; God only knows that it would have made his life easier. Trying to figure out what it is between the two of them isn't so easy, though, and most days he's just glad for what they did have: two kisses; a handful of songs; hours' worth of recording sessions. Those are things that he wouldn't trade for the world. So is she.

But maybe, just maybe, he would have said goodbye. Just one last kiss, even, if he knew that he was strong enough. Because sometimes being able to say goodbye means that you know it's not forever, and he'd give anything to know that again. Instead he waits for calls from his lawyer and replays her phone messages over and over, hoping that eventually an 'I love you' will somehow find its way through the line. It's a selfish thing to wish for, but since wishes are all he has now, he doesn't feel the need to limit himself.

The night that he finally gets his wish he sits up for another hour or two, holding the phone in his hands. They shake so badly that he has to redial five times, grateful that she's done with recording season and the phone goes directly to voice mail. After her cheerful voice fades out, he whispers softly into the phone, "I love you too." The moment he utters the words he knows that it's over, that she won't call anymore. And it drives a stake through his heart. All that he can think to do is the one thing that he should have done months ago. He would have said to her face to face if he was a real man; as it is, all he can do now is hope that she meant her words enough to forgive him. "Goodbye, Jude."


End file.
